My grandmother sits on the back step
I beside, and
my dear friend up there, at table.
There are birds in the sky
and the potted plants are nursing stitches.
I think I heard a cat jump
escaping this domain of rust,
and the steam and the fire,
the roast, the white cloth and red
full hearts, having drunk their fill;
these wanderers flood a weedpatch
and there congregate in sortees
of four and six.
The juice runs down my lips,
blood's nectar glazed with sweat's
afternoon drench, and a salute
at some cirrus flagged sky
and the walker's footfalls
muffled on the closed path
beyond the gate.
The kids are wild,
their green knees contagious;
mine are bent and the ground